


Anoesis

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Winter Mornings - HeAteUs Survival Plan [7]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Deep Throating, M/M, Orgasm Denial, odalisque verse, rope bonadge, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Filthy child,” comes the admonition, sharp, as Hannibal forces his fingers deeper. “No better than a rent boy, even still, for all that I have given to you, what little I have asked. What am I to do with you? I’ve no interest in someone else’s </i>leftovers<i>, no matter how beautiful they may have first been.”</i></p><p>Even after all this time, there is one thing Hannibal will never allow his boy to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anoesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SLSmith22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLSmith22/gifts).



> A commission to the amazing [SLSmith22](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SLSmith22), who asked us to interpret a very interesting [photo...](http://static.tumblr.com/8b8ea47ad4a15a70ccae03f3b81bf2e9/t4xomxf/rGZmkuetb/tumblr_static_screen_shot_2012-11-05_at_9.34.09_am.png)
> 
> Can't say we don't like a challenge, hun! We really hope you like how we interpreted it!

Will comes home at 2AM. Stumbles, perhaps, is the more accurate term. It's been a long time since he had come home late, drunk, and without already clinging to Hannibal and whispering in the older man’s ear that he wants to be fucked until he can't move.

He manages his boots off at the door and skids on his socks to the stairs, catching himself there with a laugh before crawling up them on all fours.

The party had been entirely unplanned, everyone invited when the island got blocked off for some millionaire kid's birthday ball until the early hours, and even then Will had only managed to get off on some guy's tiny motorboat for a favor.

He thinks how he can now claim to have tried - and enjoyed - rough sex on a calm ocean, boat rocking beneath them as Will had moaned his delight over the empty sea. It had been fun, genuinely, until the man had grunted, growled something obscene in Greek about the boy being the seductive spawn of Hades himself, and had cum hard inside Will.

Now, Will scrambles to stand at the top of the stairs and wonders if he should risk Hannibal’s ire and hope to get to the shower before he smells another man on him, or just take the spare bedroom and shower in there.

He finds, though, that the draw to press to the older man when he gets home, despite the hour, is so strong that he cannot even try to fight it. He needs it, to taste Hannibal with sloppy kisses, to feel him growl his displeasure when Will can feel his heart beat in delight of seeing his boy again. Perhaps he would forgive the indiscretion; Will would not be home now, without the slight slip in permission - much later, instead, if this evening at all. Surely that is enough: to know his little wolf is home safe.

Will crawls over Hannibal in bed, nuzzling and biting and moaning softly against him, tipsy and pleasantly warm.

"I missed you,” he purrs.

A strong hand works its way from the back of Will’s neck up into his hair, fingers splaying and tightening through wind-swept, sweat-damp curls, to pull Will closer. Hannibal is awake, has been since the boy did not return home when he was supposed to, but settled, like a shark at rest. He hums, and turns his nose against Will’s head to breathe him in.

The sea and sweat and smoke, a rich arrangement of scents that speaks of debauchery. Will is there, others too, one in particular with a masculine, musky smell that pulls a furrow in Hannibal’s brow. He seeks out other obvious smells that should accompany this - drugs, of which he finds only trace amounts, or blood. There is no sweet-sticky scent of that at all, but the _other_ that has followed Will home in his hair, on his clothes, along his neck that Hannibal nuzzles against is pervasive.

And more telling, as if the memory of a scent rather than the thing itself, arousal brushes past Hannibal’s tongue. Adrenaline. Want. Desire. Lust.

“Where did you go?” Hannibal murmurs.

"Mmm, crossed islands for a walk," Will tells him truthfully, nuzzling closer and settling in bed, messy clothes and all, blissfully, beautifully tipsy. "Then they locked it off. Good to be a millionaire's kid."

Will hums and bites his lip, stretching up against Hannibal, hands seeking out the hair against his chest to splay his fingers in. He can feel himself relaxing, one muscle at a time, close to Hannibal again, two killers in company.

"Got off around midnight,” he says, and then giggles take him, one hand up to press to his face at the seemingly irrelevant pun. Will draws up his knees and leans closer to whisper against Hannibal’s ear, "Row, row, rock the boat..."

A low purr rumbles through Hannibal in feeling Will’s fingers press against him, a growl, equally, in hearing his words and being entirely too aware of another presence far too near his boy, and for far too long. He flexes his fingers in Will’s hair, tightens and loosens them, again and again, before rolling over the boy and watching with hooded eyes as Will arches with a lovely little laugh beneath him.

Hannibal’s lips are soft against his skin, teeth scraping across his collarbone, over his heart. His hands press to Will’s sides and skim lower, followed by his mouth, a shuffle back to kneel between the boy’s legs and kiss his sternum, his stomach.

Will’s lower lip is held between his teeth as their eyes meet, and he curls a skinny leg over Hannibal’s back, and in an instant Hannibal knows precisely what the boy has done.

What he has allowed.

But he asks, instead, voice mild, “What did you do? Tell me about it, little wolf.”

Will wriggles against him, a pliant and warm thing, steadily more sleepy, and tries with fumbling fingers to tug Hannibal close again. 

"Guy had a motorboat, private vessel, can't be blocked on island so," he sighs, bends twists, "I got a ride."

"Did you."

Will smiles, eyes half closed, not hearing the threat. "I asked nice,” he teases, "so I could get home to you and you didn't make your way out to seek me and claim dinner in the process."

Twisting his head to shake loose Will’s unsteady fingers, Hannibal presses another kiss lower still, against the soft trail of hair that runs beneath Will’s belly button. He can taste the remnants of semen there, salty where his tongue sweeps into another kiss, smell the boy’s familiar odor in this, at least. And near enough now to catch more than that, brought into his bed, in his boy, and offered by that same cruel creature to Hannibal now, as Will whines and arches his back.

“You must have asked very nicely,” Hannibal agrees, “to receive a ride such as that.”

With a hum and a nuzzle against Will’s soft belly, Hannibal allows his body to settle, his pulse to return to steadiness, and as he comes up to meet Will’s mouth again he avoids the kiss the boy would yield to him and snatches him roughly by the hair instead.

“Very nicely, indeed,” sighs Hannibal, from resting state to active, as he draws himself up to his knees and slips his feet to the floor, pulling Will behind him with a bang against the ground.

"Fuck!"

Will’s used to the abuse, trained well enough that were he sober he would be able to break the hold, break free, run and fight back. But all his movements are sluggish, slow, and beyond moaning his displeasure he can do little else.

"Hannibal! Let go, Jesus," Will groans, twisting, flailing, eyes wider when he realizes where he's being dragged. He's taller now, longer limbs and stronger arms but still Hannibal is a wall to fight against, a statue, a god. Wrathful, powerful.

"I couldn't have swum the fucking ocean to get to you, drunk! Hannibal come on, please, don't think of it, it meant as little as the alcohol, it meant -"

“Ah, did it?” Hannibal asks, almost conversational as he drags Will down the stairs, a dull thud on each step that the boy’s ass bangs against. Sharp fingernails tear into his wrist and a quick jerk of his hand pulls a yelp from Will and he just grips Hannibal instead. “It meant so little to you - nothing at all, really. A dalliance of no import.”

His words become a snarl, teeth gritted behind curled lips as Will scrambles against the floor, feet slipping out from under him with lack of control. A rug bunches beneath him but Hannibal pays it little mind, through the house, and towards the basement.

“Then perhaps your pleas for forgiveness mean just as little me, as the mind you paid to a simple request I have made of you,” Hannibal murmurs, and into the darkness they go.

Will curses again and it's weaker, the basement always drawing colder terror through him than any violence wrought on him. 

"Please, shit, just... Hannibal."

He falls pliant, a heavy weight yanked further through the basement as he kicks his feet softly against the floor. He thinks of how easy it would have been not to allow it, how he could have struggled free and drowned him in the ocean, left him there and taken the boat.

He thinks too of how good it felt, fingers curling in the bottom of the boat, wet ropes and the smell of fish, pushed harder and harder to it until he had slipped to his elbows and laughed.

Inebriation was never good for Will’s mind, any substance the easiest escape for having it work so fast.

"I'm sorry," he whines.

Hannibal releases Will’s hair and shakes the loose strands from his fingers, knowing - or in light of this indiscretion, hoping he knows - that Will would not try to run from here, and raise Hannibal’s ire even greater.

“You will be,” Hannibal agrees, as he paces towards the back of the basement. “Extremely.”

Freezers hum in the near darkness, illuminated only by the sallow glow of the overhead lights that Hannibal flicks on as he passes. His table - a newer model than the one in Baltimore - rests angled in the back, blindingly clean from the last butchery he performed on it, and Will raises his eyes to the tools hanging along the wall within arms reach of it.

Hannibal goes past them, to a large cabinet, and snares from it a long length of rope that he slinks around his shoulder.

Will curses softly again, scrambles back but doesn’t struggle. Just shows his fear in the wide eyes and vulnerable posture. He regards the rope, swallows, draws his legs beneath him and crawls closer, pressing his face to Hannibal's legs, feeling the tension there, the anger boiling beneath.

"I was stupid," he murmurs, nuzzling, ignoring the feeling of rope falling against his back in a heavy coil. Will bites his lip. "Please tie me up," he whispers, "hurt me, remind me that I'm yours but don't leave me down here alone."

He presses closer, nuzzling, whining, needy and tired. He laughs, bites his lip, a gentle thing, and brings his hands to Hannibal's thighs just to hold him, but Hannibal drives his knee out into the boy just hard enough to dislodge him.

Will catches himself on his hands, only just, knees sprawled to either side of him, and Hannibal bends low over him, holding Will’s chin in his hands. There is no laughter here, no warmth, not even a distant sense of play or pleasure in his voice as he snarls, “I can smell him inside of you.”

He shoves Will back to the floor and steps away to measure out the rope in his hands, exhaustion in his voice, an overwhelming unhappiness that his boy - _his_ \- has been used in this way.

Let himself be used, in fact.

“You are greedy,” breathes Hannibal. “Selfish. So little do I ask of you, truly, so little do I _insist_ upon,” he hisses, teeth bared, “and you laugh in the face of it. And so I will treat your request with just as much respect and consideration as you have treated mine. Remove your clothes, Will. Now.”

Will swallows, shifting to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside, pants following next before Will curls with his knees to his chest and waits. He moves to remove his briefs with little more than a look from Hannibal, before shivering on the concrete floor and holding out his wrist for Hannibal to take.

"You and your double standards," Will purrs, uncoiling himself as he’s yanked forward, kneeling, "The boys you still seduce and take, every day... and I can smell them on you. Thick and wrong and you entirely shameless in it, pulling me close to claim me again after -"

Will presses his lips to Hannibal's palm as he’s silenced, fingers digging into his cheeks and nails leaving marks.

He turns his wrist, feeling the rope dig into him with elaborate knots. It will hurt, in a way as to make Will moan and ache and plead for the warm fingers to pull the ropes away, loosen them, touch him...

“One thing, Will,” hisses Hannibal, snapping the rope to jerk Will’s arms roughly, and tie them back behind him. “One thing I have asked from you when you do this, and you cannot even manage that.”

Hannibal loops the rope around Will’s neck and bends him backward, riding it up his pale neck to just against his jaw, to regard Hannibal upside down. Lips thin and eyes narrowed in a scarcely withheld anger, he seethes softly, “If I displease you so much, Will, you are welcome to try and leave. Go work the shore, the streets as you did before, and let all manner of beast leave your thighs slick in my place.”

"You would miss me," Will whispers, parts his lips as the rope is tightened just enough to choke him. He can't bring his hands up to stop it, and just keeps his eyes on Hannibal. 

He does not find a kind stare in return.

Rarely does he make Hannibal truly angry, bring him to viciousness that is not in play. He thinks of the basement in Baltimore, the sting of the belt as he had been cut by It over and over for his own idiocy. He thinks how here he had finally been forgiven it.

He gasps, floor freezing against his chest as he is almost hogtied in place. He can feel the knots still deliberate, to press to points of pleasure and pain both as Hannibal tethers him.

"I'm yours," he reminds Hannibal, whiny and needy both at once. "I crawl through hells and beasts to get to your bed, pay for It as they beg but they never _have_ me." He yelps as Hannibal gathers and pulls, twists and knots, between Will’s throat and his feet, curving him backwards as far as he can reach in an ornate and deliberate web of rope.

“No?” asks Hannibal, and for a moment the man sounds almost reasonable, were Will not so tightly bound that he can feel his pulse in every part of his skin. “And so that is why you told me, then, so I would know and you might make amends for it. Why you washed that filth from your body before bringing to my bed.”

Will swallows as Hannibal continues his work, controlled enough to bind him tightly without cutting off circulation. “That is why you let him defile you that way? It was to show him that he didn’t _have_ you,” Hannibal repeats, as if clarifying.

Looping the remaining length of rope around his arm, Hannibal circles to stand in front of the boy now hogtied so tightly in soft red rope that his toes nearly touch his head.

“Did you kill him, Will?”

Will’s eyes are wide, lips parted. He shakes his head as he can, licks his lips. He still wonders why, still thinks of the moment he could have tipped the man overboard, burdened with his wet ropes and crate of tools. Still wonders why, after the man had finished, Will had not immediately struck him.

"I didn't."

He sighs, eyes closing as Hannibal presses his hands to them. He trembles, licks his lips and makes a plaintive little sound.

"I couldn't leave a body on the sea, Hannibal, they would have found him, they -"

Hannibal’s fingers are gentle as he strokes them through Will’s hair, down his neck, against the rope that presses against his pulse.

“- certainly would never have understood how a drunken fisherman got ensnared and fell out of a boat, at night,” Hannibal murmurs. For a moment he considers kissing Will, savoring the taste of him and his regret once more before the thought of what he allowed - and what he tried to get past Hannibal - stokes his anger again and he stands, calmly.

The rope, single but folded and tied into seemingly many, is looped over the ceiling beam overhead, and is caught with a soft sound in Hannibal’s hands.

“What are you -” Will begins, but his words are cut short on a whine and a wince when Hannibal begins to heft Will from the floor in steady pulls. The rope makes a soft susurrus as it slips over the beam, and Will inches higher and higher from the floor. Limbs strained into an even sharper discomfort, the ropes press - squeeze - around him, soft enough not to cut into his skin and strong enough that he can do little more than hang suspended.

Hannibal loops the rope around a hook embedded in the wall and rests for a moment, still in nothing more than his sleep pants and now a far cry from how he had hoped to spend his night.

“Did you enjoy it, Will? When you felt him finish in you. Did you think about it on the way home, relish it against your skin?”

Will watches him as he hangs, every muscle tense, everything throbbing already, his own weight his torture here. He starts to turn, finds Hannibal catches him by the chin to keep him still. He bites his lip.

"I didn't know he had until he did,” he admits, "then he let me go and -"

He can still feel the stickiness filthy between his legs, tied splayed with more elaborate loops. Will curls his toes and turns into the hand holding him.

"He told me he would get me off the island for a fuck," he sighs. "Most do, most of the time I don't care."

A displeased hum from Hannibal and Will levels him with a wry look. "I got here on my back, to this island, to you. Spreading my legs has never been a problem for you, for you to watch it be done, to do yourself. It's the claim -"

He makes a pained noise and trembles again, fingers splaying, toes bending and relaxing how he hangs as the pressure grows more.

"I hate it on my skin," he whispers. "I want to wash it clean."

“But you did not,” Hannibal reminds him. “You said nothing of it, made no attempt to save me from the stench of it. You came into my bed - _ours_ \- reeking of another with little mind but your own comfort.”

A slap starts to send him spinning but Hannibal catches Will’s face before he can turn away - once, for swearing, Will knows, swallowing hard past the rope at his throat. His touch gentles then, a cruel torment in itself as the older man strokes the backs of his fingers down Will’s cheek, against his chest, following the beautiful, extreme curve held by his body until Hannibal reaches his cock, hanging between the bindings.

“You thought with this, what little you thought at all,” murmurs Hannibal. He wraps his fingers around the soft organ, stroking him as if he were milking him, from the way he hangs. “You satisfied him and yourself, insatiable boy, and came to serve me only after doing so, laughing as if you thought nothing of it. The insult of it, the selfishness,” Hannibal says, voice twisting into a hiss.

"I wanted to get to you," Will murmurs, voice unsteady as he tries to duck his head to see what Hannibal is doing and finds it impossible. "I had to get home and into your arms, I missed you -"

A squeeze, in warning, and Will bites his lip, releases it.

"All day, you were gone. All day. I went off island to distract myself, I didn't know it would be locked off, I didn't know I would need to fuck my way off." Another slap that Will takes with a moan, not a cry, cheeks flushed already as Hannibal keeps cruelly stroking him, listening. "I wanted to get home, to your bed, to ours, and lose myself in you and I couldn’t... without letting him do that."

Hannibal sighs, a long and tired sound, squeezing hard enough to shake a moan from the boy already trembling against the ropes pressing white against his skin. Feeling Will’s cock harden despite himself, despite his best attempts at genuine atonement, Hannibal takes a distinct satisfaction in skimming his fingertips across the slick that beads at the tip, and teasing the skin down to bare the head entirely to the cool cellar air.

“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Will blinks, biting his lip to stifle another moan as Hannibal touches softly over the exposed, sensitive skin.

“Answer me,” Hannibal warns, “in truth. I will know if you do not and we will see how long you last bound as you are, and filthy. You enjoyed his company, and that’s why you didn’t kill him.”

Will shakes, voice higher, trembling. He clenches his fingers, relaxes them, shakes his head, nods it.

"He looked like you -" Will moans, another beautiful sound following as Hannibal works him to agony with pleasure. "He wasn't rough, he started kind... treated me like I was little, I was shy when I asked for a ride and he was kind..."

Will arches his back, bending himself further in the beautiful tangle of rope holding him captive, eyes closed and mouth open on panting and soft whimpers.

"He stopped the boat far out, bent me over...and he was nothing like you. His touches too soft, his words filthy and dull. He fucked deep but not hard, I ached for you, I wanted to... to go home... to feel... feel you instead... please, Hannibal, please -"

The older man hums, the first moment of acquiescence that Will has earned so far, with his fearful sincerity. He slows his stroking, though it matters little even when he stops, Will’s cock now hard, swollen and red.

“I’m sure you were irresistible,” Hannibal allows. “Cheeks flushed with expensive liquor, with drugs, your hair wind-swept in the salt air. Did you ask him sweetly, beautiful boy? Did you act shy when he told you his fee, pretend as though you’ve never done such things before?”

He skims a hand down the curve of Will’s spine, his tanned skin, following the bend of his lean young body from his hair, over his ass, and around his legs in the shape of a hoop, interspersed with lines of rope. Like a dreamcatcher, formed from the body of a boy who has begun to learn not only how to snare the wishes of others but to end them, entirely.

"I begged," Will bites his lip, and for a brief moment allows a mischievous smile, eyes up to Hannibal. "I told him my daddy would be so worried if I didn't get home before curfew."

He watches Hannibal’s eyes darken, a longstanding game with them, a gentle name-calling. Then Hannibal draws nails over Will’s skin and he gasps, shivers, cock leaking warm between his legs, dripping a sticky drop to the floor that Will knows he will be made to lick clean.

"I pretended that I had never done it, that I was scared but I would try, if he could get me home." Hannibal's hand slips between the cheeks of Will’s ass and presses against him, still slick and messy, Will watches his lip snarl in possessive anger. "I sobbed so loudly it echoed off the water before he made me moan, and only then I did to make him stop," Will whispers, muscles tense and shaking.

"I was temptation," he says, voice wavering, "and I clawed my way from him when he hit the shore to get to you."

Precariously balanced between desire and disgust, between a want to punish and a want to _have_ , Hannibal’s lip curls a little more and he slaps hard across Will’s ass - once, twice, again, until the boy yelps and his skin is scarlet. For the name, Will knows, the title that Hannibal so loathes, and he bites his lip again to stop the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He works his fingers back against Will’s warm opening - damp and open from being so recently used - and allows the thrill of anger to curl inside of himself again, an animal ferocity in finding his territory impeded upon by another.

“Filthy child,” comes the admonition, sharp, as Hannibal forces his fingers deeper. “No better than a rent boy, even still, for all that I have given to you, what little I have asked. What am I to do with you? I’ve no interest in someone else’s _leftovers_ , no matter how beautiful they may have first been.”

"Make me yours again," Will gasps, trying to arch back to the fingers deep into him, trying not to swing, finding himself held steady by a hand against his throat, just above the rope. He will be bruised all over for this. Will shivers at the thought.

"Make me work myself clean, reclaim me entirely... through blood and pain and cries... tears... spread wide as you take me again and again until you feel me yours again, _please_!"

Trembling, moaning, dripping to the floor again as Will endures another slap, another, until he calls Hannibal's name in that tone, that sweet little tone that only comes when his desire hits new levels he can barely control.

"I want to be yours again," he breathes.

Hannibal’s fingers twist deeper, merciless inside the boy, spreading him wider than he already is to feel him shake against the taut cords. It is a punishment, and yet Hannibal knows all too well how much pleasure Will derives from the pain, the humiliation he inflicts on him. With a huff of breath to the scent of this _other_ from his nose, Hannibal withdraws his fingers, eyes narrowing in his own pleasure now as Will lets out a little sob, trembling.

Plucking the ropes, Hannibal plays the boy like a harp, changing pitch and tone depending on which he pulls tighter - a high alarm when he tightens the set strapped across Will’s belly, a low delight when Hannibal changes to the one across his chest instead. Finally, one in particular is sought, and when Hannibal curves his finger around it and pulls, the slipknot unravels - as do several others joined to it, and Will unrolls the width of his body with a yelp as the ropes pull tight against his weight again. On his back now, cock against his belly, one knee held tight against his chest and the other ankle stretched high above him, arms still held behind his back.

Hannibal steps closer to Will’s head, hands framing his face, smearing the stickiness of his fingers across the boy’s cheek to allow him to savor it as he attempted to fool Hannibal into doing. Smiling faintly, he curves a hand around Will’s chin and tilts his head back, straining against the rope snug around his throat, until Will is face-to-face - and upside down - with the older man’s hardening cock, the ridge of it just visible beneath his shorts.

“I should leave you here,” snarls Hannibal softly.

"If you step up closer I can pull your cock between my lips and relearn you again," Will whispers, flushed and hard and tangled, hair dangling towards the ground as his eyes seek out Hannibal's. He twists his wrists, just to show the struggle, the strain in his body for Hannibal to enjoy.

"I've never had you this way, I could take you so deep," he licks his lips, parts them. He wonders how he must look, as he is, a little boy caught in a net and tugged from the sea, half-wild and hissing and feral.

"Let me earn it?" he whispers, hopeful, horny, leaking down his stomach.

Hannibal’s gaze sharpens, a curious annoyance spurred by the boy’s words, by the boy himself, and yet aimed not towards Will at all. It is Hannibal’s own weakness that frustrates him, his inability to simply beat the boy blue and leave him dangling, to return to bed and seek him out in the morning. Bound and held, stilled from even the delicious squirming that still twitches visible through his slender body, he is definitively irresistible, a temptation that at no point in his life might Hannibal hope to have enough willpower to resist.

And then Will’s tongue wets his lips again, and Hannibal doesn’t mind so much.

He releases Will’s cheeks to instead slip his thumbs beneath the waistband of his shorts, sliding them just low enough down his hips that his cock is sprung free, falling thick against Will’s throat, the soft cord around it. Hannibal sighs as Will’s breath warms his skin, and he braces a hand against the bindings that keep the boy aloft, murmuring low.

“Show me how sorry you are.”

Will grins, biting his lip before opening his mouth and arching to get Hannibal’s cock against his lips to suck. Hands bound, he ends up squirming until he manages the tip, with a laugh, and closes his eyes to take more.

It is a brutal angle, but Will swallows until he chokes, opens his eyes and does it again, watching Hannibal as he sucks, flushed and trembling, sweaty and so hard his cock twitches with every pull against Hannibal’s. 

He parts his lips, strings of saliva pulling to his lips and tongue as he moans, grins, laughs, and wraps his lips over him again, arching in his net to stretch his body more.

Hannibal tucks a hand beneath Will’s head, grasping him by the curls, and brings the other to rest against his throat. A low hum - decidedly pleased now, rather than balanced between want and punishment - and he holds Will in place to move his own hips instead.

A steady, slow fucking into Will’s mouth, lips curled wet and snug around his flushed cock, tongue stroking curiously along the top, with Will upside down as he is. Mouth reddening beautifully, and throat working beneath the older man’s hand, Hannibal ducks his head to groan, sighing, as he pushes deep, languid, to the back of Will’s throat.

His intent is clear, he does not ask, but he gives the boy room enough to choke down air before trying again, eyes black with delight. “Greedy,” purrs Hannibal, cock smearing spit glistening bright against Will’s already swollen lips, and with a roll of his hips he pushes past them again, seeking out the boy’s throat with a snarl.

Will whines, needy and high, eyes closed and throat open, by his position and choice both. The rhythm is suffocating, Will barely managing to choke down air as he's fucked.

His toes curl, fingers twisting in the knots to no avail, wrists turning as he moans and coughs, thick sounds of swallowing as Hannibal continues his punishment, gripping Will's hair and holding him still.

Will knows his tears drip down to his hair, down his cheeks and to the floor in thick drops. He sobs, in need as much as pain, aching to breathe and begging to cum, arching and writhing and twisting until he is allowed to breathe and says only _please_!

Hannibal’s cock leaves a slick, shining smear against Will’s cheek, and the boy is slapped for his whining, his begging, jerked up by his hair to bring their eyes together, Will’s glistening bright blue as he blinks, and tears slip from the corners.

“You have had your pleasure for tonight, Will,” Hannibal reminds him, another cruel jerk of his curls to force his head back down and press his cock past the lips that part so eagerly for it. “You will not again. Not tonight, perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps a week, more, if you ask again,” promises Hannibal, meeting the sweet whine that rises high and lovely from Will’s throat with a growl of warning.

Will forces his throat, sore already, to relax, closes his eyes and surrounds the man once more with his mouth, wet and warm and still so eager. Again Hannibal lets his fingers rest against the boy’s throat, head ducked and shoulders hunched as he feels Will’s throat work to open for him, to take him in, to hold Hannibal so deeply in his mouth even as Will’s breath is scattershot little pants and gasps.

“Stay,” Hannibal tells him, and though Will has no choice but to do so, the instruction raises a panic in his chest, sends his heart fluttering and tongue rocking against Hannibal’s cock as if to dislodge it. Eyes wide but blurry with tears, his breath comes shorter for each second that Hannibal remains buried down his throat. Hannibal releases Will’s hair and splays his hand instead across Will’s bare chest, soft skin segmented into tightly demarcated portions by the bindings. He presses his fingers there, just over Will’s heart, to feel Will’s panic send it frantic like a fluttering bird, like a leaf tossed by wind.

“Stay,” he says again, in warning, and now Will can feel his body numbing, no way to move away, to turn his head or open up his airway. “Breathe,” Hannibal tells him, and only when Will clenches his hands and lets out a high, fearful sound, his little body curled in distress, does Hannibal draw back from his mouth and finish, hot, sticky splatters across his face, and a savage snarl rips from Hannibal’s chest.

Will coughs hard, eyes tearing and body shaking as he tries to heave in breaths, and even so he holds his tongue out to catch the drops that fall on it as Hannibal finishes. Then he’s let go, left to swing and hang like a dead weight, muscles still tense, cock still hard and aching and untouched.

Will closes his eyes and lets himself breathe, twisting his wrists just enough to feel them, to know they have not lost circulation and are not in pain. He feels, in a word, forgiven. Used and punished and let go. Filthy and helpless and in the basement where so many boys like him die.

He only opens his eyes when he hears Hannibal step away, and then only to follow him with them to see if he will be forced to spend the night in the basement or if he will be exiled to the floor or spare bedroom instead.

Hannibal stops, a short distance away, to take in the sight of Will - suspended, his legs spread and body slack but for where his cock lies pink and full, and his cheeks, his lips, glistening wet with tears, with Hannibal’s still-warm marking. He commits the sight to memory, no more anger in him now that he has taken it out on the boy, and he murmurs only, “Beautiful.”

Carefully, he unloops the rope from the wall, winding it between his hand and his elbow as he returns to stand beside Will and slowly lower him to the floor.

Will arches his neck back just enough to see how far he is from the floor, then he bends forward to allow himself to come to the ground comfortably, groaning as he’s laid against the cold concrete again. He’s panting, trembling, watching Hannibal with wide eyes and parted lips as the man settles beside him to work the knots free.

This is the part, in all the times that they have played this way, that Will finds himself entirely mesmerized. Anger purged from Hannibal, the man softer and gentler, strong fingers working deftly to slip loop from loop and set Will free. Hannibal had told him, once, that there are at most two knots in the entire structure of a suspension, the rest is carefully turned rope, twists and bends and loops, never knots.

No matter the man’s anger, he has not put Will in danger with this kind of play. Will doubts he ever would.

When he’s released he stretches, curls onto the cool floor on his chest and lifts his eyes through his filthy fringe to seek instruction, contented, for the moment, to be told what to do before he is allowed to return to bed and rub himself against Hannibal until in that, too, the man relents.

“Clean yourself,” Hannibal tells him, studying the boy who stretches at his feet. “All of yourself. Thoroughly.” His meaning is clear enough, and he hums as Will stretches his arms out in front of himself, catlike, before slinking closer to sit at Hannibal’s feet. He curls an arm around his leg, rests the other on his thigh, and kisses whatever skin passes beneath his lips.

“Where would you like me when I’m done?” asks Will, turning his eyes upward, following the long looming lines of Hannibal’s body. “Should I come back here?”

Hannibal twines his fingers through Will’s hair. “You will come to bed,” he answers, and Will has to fight not to grin when Hannibal adds, “You’ve earned my forgiveness. Now you will earn back my affection.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Anoesis** : (noun) Psychology. A rare word, anoesis is characterized as a state of blind emotion filled with extreme sensation without any cognitive awareness. Your senses, perception and feelings are extremely elevated and devoid of intellectual comprehension.


End file.
